


The Redemption of Bellamy Pickett

by SilverThroatedNightingale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon characters are mostly cameo appearances, Experimental Magic, Hogwarts, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Battle of Hogwarts, Pureblood Supremacy, Salem Academy, Slytherins are people too, Trying to tag without giving away the suprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverThroatedNightingale/pseuds/SilverThroatedNightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Pickett was exiled eleven years ago, cast out of the only world she had ever known. But now it has come, quite literally, knocking on her front door. Why now? Will her deepest, most carefully held secrets be revealed? Can she save both the Wizarding World and herself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

# Chapter One: Rain

_Salem, Massachusetts, October 3d, 2006_

Rain spattered against the glass, and she looked up with a frown. Sometime since she had sat down next to the pub window, with a new book and some good port, the sky had clouded over. The clock on the far wall read half-past three. At least the book had been entertaining, though laughably inaccurate.

She glanced around, taking stock of her surroundings. In the far corner, two elderly men talked quietly over beers, and a new waitress was wiping down the tables, preparing for the imminent arrival of the mid-afternoon regulars. Tourists didn’t frequent this pub, but it was a favorite gathering spot for locals.

She looked out the window to the street, her view distorted by the thick glass and the rain flowing down the channels of its cloudy ripples. The atmosphere was the reason she loved coming here—that and the conversation. The glass and woodwork had character. The chairs and tables were old and well used, but obviously cared for. The place had history, and she had found long ago that she could think clearly in its warmth.

History was not always pretty, and especially not in Salem, Massachusetts. Terrible things had happened here, but she found a strange comfort in the fact that life had gone on. People came from all over the country, and world, to gawk at the spectral sins of the town’s long-dead ancestors. That was annoying: the crowds, the sensationalism, the rampant misconceptions. But the crowds were more than worth the rewards of her work.

“Professor Pickering?” The young waitress had wiped her way across the room, and stood in front of her, cloth in hand. She brought herself back to the moment, and smiled warmly.

“Yes, but please call me Amy. There’s no need for formality,” she said. The girl nodded, her blonde ponytail bobbing behind her.

“Amy. Okay. Thank you. Ummm…would you like me to wipe your table?” She swallowed a laugh, turning it into a cough. Egads, the girl was as green as spring grass. In fact, she looked like she was still in high school. Jeffie had his work cut out for him this time.

“No, thank you, not yet. You’re new, aren’t you, dear? What’s your name?” The waitress and her ponytail bobbed again, all nervousness and eager to please.

“Claire. Claire Barington. Jeff Barington is my uncle.” Ah, so Angela’s oldest. She nodded her head in recognition as the girl moved on to the next table. Now the clock read three thirty-six; she really should go. An impressive stack of midterms and essays waited on her desk, and they would not grade themselves. With a sigh, she found herself scanning the quiet room again, restlessness twitching in the back of her mind. It felt almost like expectancy, as if there should be someone else in the room. How silly. Ridiculous thoughts from a ridiculous book. She shook her head, and gathered her coat and bag.

Raindrops stung her face as she stepped outside, and she quickly turned out of the wind to pull up her hood. Tires splashed through deepening puddles as a car pulled up behind her. The door slammed, and she moved out of the pub doorway, still fishing for the edge of her hood. It was tangled somehow, and her hair was already drenched, rain streaming into her eyes.

“Allow me,” a warm, male voice said, and she jumped at its nearness. There was a tug, and her hood came free. Hastily pulling it over her drenched hair, she turned, and found herself looking into a pair of bright blue eyes, twinkling with amusement. 

“Th-thank you,” she stammered, stepping further away from the doorway, and mopping the rain out of her eyes. But the man made no move to enter the pub. He stood, looking at her, expectantly, as if waiting for recognition. Disconcerted, she glanced up and down quickly, trying to place him. His face was unfamiliar, and he had spoken with a soft edged, well-traveled accent. His long, black coat looked almost like a cloak--expensive, and slightly out of place. His leather shoes were just long enough to indicate European origin, and his hat was beautifully made, but old-fashioned….her heart suddenly felt very heavy in her chest. Old-fashioned. European. A cloak. No, it couldn’t be. Not after all this time.

He was watching her as keenly as she was him, and when he saw the realization begin to bloom behind her eyes, he chuckled.

“Don’t think of it, especially since it’s you I’ve been looking for. You are Bellamy Pickett, aren’t you?”

She ran.


	2. Snow

# Chapter Two: Snow

_London, Christmas Eve, 1986_

_“Please, Bellamy, show me how you do it!” The end of Phrosie’s red braid dangled down, tickling Bellamy’s cheek. She brushed it away irritably._

_“I did already! Now go away and play with Felix, or--” The little girl hovering over her shoulder began cry._

_“I can’t remember,” she wailed from her perch on the back of the sofa, “and I want to make lots of kittens. I want to make lots and lots, and put them on the Christmas tree, but the paper just won’t fold right.” She hiccuped loudly, then resumed crying. Bellamy sighed. She loved her cousin, but Phrosie’s single-minded pursuit of what she wanted was often frustrating._

_“All right,” she said, turning and lifting the little girl down. “Sit next to me, and I’ll show you again.” Phrosie beamed, tears immediately forgotten. She snuggled up to Bellamy, rather like a kitten herself. A large, damp, red kitten. Bellamy stifled a giggle, forgetting her annoyance in a rush of affection._

_“Now pay attention. First you fold these edges down, one on this side, and one on the other side…”_

_Half an hour and four origami kittens later, Phrosie departed happily, clattering down the attic stairs, eager to show Aunt Roxanne what “she” had made. Bellamy lay back on the couch, soaking in the quiet. Up here, in the top of the house, she felt completely alone, almost as if it were a different world. If she sat on the stairs, she could hear the distant sounds of the grown-ups talking, and dishes clattering in the kitchen, and music playing, but not here. It was a nice sort of loneliness._

_Dust motes drifted lazily in the haloed light of the lamp which sat next to the sofa. Bellamy blew at them absently, thinking how the winter wind blew snow about the windows sometimes. It was beautiful. She loved storms, when the wind howled around the eaves, and rattled the shutters. She closed her eyes and blew at the dust again: she was the wind, driving great grey clouds before her, heavy with snow. When she blew hard enough, the snow would fall from the clouds, floating to earth, gentle as feathers. But no, she was the wind, so there must be a storm, a swirl of white, a labyrinth of snow. She was cold, and strong, and taller than any rooftop, ancient and powerful….._

_“Little mistress?” Bellamy jumped, startled out of her daydream. How long had she been lying there?_

_“Yes, Cinny?” she replied._

_“Dinner is served, little mistress.” Suddenly longing for company, Bellamy clambered over the back of the sofa. She stopped in front of the wardrobe next to the stairs, neatening her dress and hair in the cracked mirror. She made a face at the horrid goblin carved in the frame, then clattered down the stairs towards the smell of ham and the sound of laughter._

_She did not look behind her._


	3. Silence

# Chapter Three: Silence

_Salem, Massachusetts, October 3d, 2006_

Bellamy leaned back against the front door of her little house, locked tight behind her. Her heart pounded as if it were trying to shove its way out of her chest, and her mind swirled, the jumble of thoughts refusing to settle into any semblance of order. The walls, the walls of her beautiful little house, her refuge, they felt suddenly like the confines of a cell, detatched and collapsing inwards…...she slid down the door and slumped on the floor, her breath coming in ugly little sobbing gasps.

_Oh god, oh god, they know how did they find out oh god god god_

That man. He was a wizard, Bellamy knew it beyond any doubt. Eleven years. It had taken them eleven years to discover the truth, and now the world as everyone knew it would end. She heard, as if from a distance, a hysterical, hiccuping squeak, and realized it was herself. Laughing. Watching herself laugh. Watching the tinder and kindling be set up before the world burned, and laughing because she couldn’t stop it.

_Stop it stop stop breathe pull yourself together breathe_

But no. No. She could run. She would be running forever, but she could run. But her home, and her work, and everything she didn’t know yet, and Belkis, and--Belkis, and--Bellamy pressed the heel of her hand over her breastbone, hard, and tried to steady her breathing.

_In two pause out four pause in two remember out four remember how to breathe_

Thank god for the habit she had set, from the beginning, of turning everything off before she left. Always. The other snakes, for all their backstabbing and political games, had taught her caution, at least. If she had been a raven, she wouldn’t have even made it a year. She heaved out a ragged laugh, her breath shuddering out of rhythm again. She had wanted to be a raven, not a snake. A raven. The hand of fate had ever lain heavy upon her, god--fate, what a monstrous, cosmic joke. She could taste tears on her lips now, feel their tracks on her cheeks.

_Breathe woman breathe pull yourself together in out in out in out in_

How long had she been leaning against the door? She did not know. Maybe a long time. Maybe not.  
She sat.


	4. Spiders

# Chapter Four: Spiders

_London, Christmas Eve, 1986  
_

_There it was again. Jack’s distinctive, throaty giggle. Bellamy rolled her eyes, and began counting to ten. At six, Phrosie shrieked, and jumped off the armchair, swatting at her dress and hair._

_“Spider! There’s a spider on me! There’s a spider!” she cried. Bellamy put down her book, and calmly beckoned the little girl over._

_“Hush, Phrosie. It was the boys. I’m sure it’s just a piece of--OH!” Bellamy broke off, shocked, as a large, hairy spider crawled out of the back of Phrosie’s dress, and on to her own hand. She hurriedly shook it onto the floor and stomped on it. The little girl dove into the shelter of her arms, sobbing noisily._

_“Felix,” she growled, “come out this instant. I know you did that, and it wasn’t funny.” Jack’s face emerged from behind a large potted flower by the doorway, but Phrosie’s older brother was nowhere to be seen._

_“Felix, if I have to come find you, there will be trouble,” Bellamy said warningly. There was a scuffling noise behind the Christmas tree, and Felix crawled out, covered with needles. He wore a sulky, defiant scowl._

_“You can’t do anything to me, Belly, you’re just a poor little bastard squib,” he said. A chill swept through Bellamy, then a wave of bright heat._

_“What--what did you just say?” she said. Felix grinned, an ugly, triumphant expression taking over his face._

_“I said, you’re just a poor bastard squib. That’s what Mother says. She says if your mother hadn’t run off and dallied with some idiot mudblood, that you’d have magic.” Bellamy trembled. An odd feeling was beginning to grow in her head. It hurt. The room was too bright. All she could see was Felix. Felix. Bastard. Squib. Mudblood. Bastard. She faintly heard another voice; who was it? What was it saying?_

_“Belly? Belly? What’s the matter? You’re scaring me, Belly!” The words made no sense. They might as well have been radio static, or a dog barking. All she could see was Felix. His horrid grin. His expensive suit, covered with needles and pitch. The spider. Phrosie screaming. Hairy little legs. Spider. Spider. Pine needles. Spider…….._

_Felix’s face changed, and his mouth opened wide to shriek._

_“Auugh! Spiders! Spiders! Get them off me! Help! Mummy, help!” The room was too dark. No, it was too bright. Now it couldn’t stay still. So loud, too loud. The floor heaved, the shadows swept in from the corners, and Bellamy knew nothing more.  
_

_She fell._


	5. Quilt

# Chapter Five: Quilt

_Salem, Massachusetts, October 3d, 2006_

_Take this book._

_Leave that jar._

_Is there still room for these notebooks?_

Bellamy considered them, then tucked them into her suitcase, between her good wool coat and a few books. How could she pack up the last eleven years into a single suitcase, and just leave? She shook her head: it was a question that she did not have the luxury of time to answer.

Rain lashed against the window. Her snug little bedroom, like the rest of the house, was oddly dark and quiet. Her little inventions, which usually filled the house with a lively hum, lay silent and still. She would have to either take them or destroy them. Destroying part of her life’s work; as painful as the thought was, she would be damned if she left concrete proof for anyone to find. Even the beautiful quilt on her bed, its swirling patterns of blue wrinkled and distorted by the weight of her suitcase, would have to go. She would have to burn it.

The overwhelming panic was gone, cried out against her front door, and a dazed numbness had taken its place. It was only a matter of time before the wizard found out where she lived, and she had to be gone by then. The few traps she had set outside would buy her a little time, but not enough if she wasn’t ready. Especially not if he brought others with him. Bellamy shuddered, her memories jumping back to that other night, so many years ago, so far away, the first time she had been hunted, the night when everything had shattered in her hands...…….No. No, this time would be different.

The suitcase was full. Even with the small extensions, nothing more would fit. She stood in front of the gaping lid, suddenly loath to close it. Once she did, that was the end. Everything else would have to burn, or break, and the life she had made for herself would be over. She could never come back. Bellamy stroked the quilt, remembering _“here, girl, take it.” Knobby hands trembling under the slight weight of the folded quilt. “I know it isn’t much, but it will keep you warm tonight. And safe. Just….take it.”_

She jerked her hand away--too much, too much--and slammed the case shut. It was time. Time to end everything.

She took a deep breath…...


	6. Cherry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date corrected to 1989.

# Chapter Six: Cherry

_London, August 1989_

_The bell on the door of Ollivander’s tinkled as Bellamy and her mother stepped in from the crowded street. Diagon Alley was overrun with bright-eyed eleven-year-olds and their parents, as it was every year. Outside was chatter, laughter, shouting, bargaining. But inside the shop it was quiet. Bellamy smelled dust, wood shavings, and a host of other things she could not name. She was twitching with excitement--Mum had made her wait for Ollivanders until the very last, and she had even tried to rush through the bookstore in order to make it come sooner._

_The shop was dim, and lined with shelves. Each of those shelves was filled with boxes. Each of those boxes held a wand. And one of those wands would be hers. A shiver of anticipation shook Bellamy, and she squeezed her mother’s hand tightly. Persephone Pickett smiled down at her, and reached forward to tap the bell on the edge of the counter. A wrinkled man with a cloud of wild white hair peered around the corner of a shelf. He bustled around the counter._

_“Ah, Persephone, my dear,” he said, clasping her mother’s hand warmly, “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you. It seems only yesterday you were here, finding your first wand. Such a lovely, capable wand. Such a shame what happened--but enough of that. Who is this lovely young lady with you?” Bellamy’s mother pushed her gently forwards toward the counter._

_“This is my daughter, Bellamy.” Bellamy stood awed and silent. So this was the famous man who made the best wands in Britain, possibly in all of Europe. The man who understood magic so well that he made the tool to channel it. The man who had made some of the most powerful wands in history. He looked so….nice. Friendly, like Grandfather Pickett._

_“Bellamy, say hello,” her mother prompted. Oh! She had forgotten her manners._

_“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ollivander,” Bellamy said quickly, bobbing a little curtsey. The old man smiled broadly._

_“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Pickett. Quite a pleasure, indeed. Would you like to try a wand, my dear?” Bellamy nodded eagerly. At last, the moment had come. She would find her wand, and she would be able to do everything she had ever wanted, with only a simple gesture. Magic would be so much easier. Mr. Ollivander ran his finger along a row of shelves, then pulled over a ladder, and plucked a box from a much higher shelf._

_“Here,” he said, handing the wand to her, “Try this one. It is very similar to your mother’s first wand, birch with a core of unicorn hair.” Bellamy took it carefully from his hand, and ran her finger gently along its length. It was straight and smooth, and the light-colored wood had beautiful swirls. A small knob and a little band of decorative carving adorned the wider end, but otherwise it was very simple. What was that on the inside? Bellamy ran her finger along the wand again. It felt...quiet. Too soft. She didn’t want this one._

_“May I try another, please?” Mr. Ollivander’s white eyebrows shot up, and he reached out to take the wand. But her mother quickly put her hand over Bellamy’s._

_“Would you like to try it first, dear? Just give it a wave?” she asked. Bellamy shook her head. She didn’t need to._

_“No thank you.” Out of the corner of her eye, Bellamy saw him glance at her mother as he took the wand and set it aside._

_Well over a dozen wands later, Bellamy still had not found the one she wanted, and Mr. Ollivander’s hair was even wilder than when they had first walked in. All she could say to his questions was that this wand was too loud, or that wand was too slippery, or that another didn’t like her. Every time she rejected a wand, he looked over at her mother, as if expecting her to speak. But her mother said nothing, only stood aside and watched in silence._

_Ollivander took the latest wand from her, and set it on the counter, adding it to the stack. He looked at Bellamy closely for a moment, as if she were a puzzle, and he were missing a piece. Then he froze, and she suddenly felt as if she ought to shrink away under the intensity of his gaze. After a long moment, in which Bellamy barely breathed, he looked at her mother again, raising one eyebrow in a silent question. This time Persephone nodded, her eyes sliding away towards the floor, examining it with interest._

_“Well,” the old man said quietly, “I think...perhaps I know what you need now.” He disappeared behind the counter, out of sight behind the shelves. Bellamy heard him muttering to himself, pulling out boxes, and putting them back. Then--_

_“Ah, here we are.” He came back around the counter, holding a single box. The lid was covered with soft dust, and the box itself was plain and black, except for a lone silver symbol on the front. Bellamy did not recognize it, but it looked like some of the runes her father had shown her. Her hands twitched, eager. She wanted the box, wanted to open it, wanted to touch what was inside. Why was Mr. Ollivander taking so long to open it? She reached out, and he laid the wand carefully in her hand._

_A quiver of ecstasy rushed through Bellamy. Oh! This wand was different! It felt alive, and curious, and strong. She felt strong holding it. What could she do with it? She waved it experimentally at the stack of wands sitting on the counter, and then towards the shelves, silently commanding the stack to put itself away. Each wand tucked itself neatly into its box, and flew back to its place on the shelves around the shop. Mr. Ollivander and her mother stared at her._

_“What is that wand, Garrick?” Her mother asked sharply. Mr. Ollivander did not answer for a moment, examining Bellamy with an odd expression on his face._

_“Cherry, thirteen and three-quarters inches, with a phoenix feather core,” he said at last, not meeting her mother’s eyes. Persephone flinched._

_“Must she have that wand?” she asked. “Must she?” Mr. Ollivander sighed, and shook his head._

_“I’m sorry, Persephone. Truly I am. But look at her; it has chosen her, whether for good or ill. She will--” He reached out to pat Persephone’s arm comfortingly, but she pulled away._

_“Well, Bellamy,” she said quickly, too brightly, “We should be getting home. Come along.” Bellamy turned to follow her mother, in a happy daze. Her wand was beautiful. It was simple, without decoration, and only slightly curved. It was graceful, and it was alive, and it was hers. The bell on the door tinkled again, and the clamour of the street outside rushed in, interrupting Bellamy’s reverie. She tugged on her mother’s hand._

_“Wait, Mum!” Her mother looked down in surprise._

_“What?”_

_“I didn’t say thank you to Mr. Ollivander.” Her mother pressed her lips tightly together, and swallowed. She let go of Bellamy’s hand._

_“I’ll be outside.”_

_The door shut behind her mother, and Bellamy suddenly felt very much alone._

_She turned._


End file.
